It was six p.m. and the shops nearby were shut, so he couldn’t dash into one and purchase an umbrella. His uncle who owned the Estate Agency next door, had closed at four p.m. as he always did on Saturdays, or Greg could have asked him for a lift. Greg’s own staff of two who worked on Saturdays had both departed at five-thirty, but as neither had transport they would also have been drenched, as Greg was about to be now. There was no point in calling a taxi. His staff had tried that, and everything had been booked for several hours.
Greg loved living in Betancourt Bay but it did have its downsides. Like the fact that there was no public transport to and from the village. And that it was all uphill from Folkestone. And that it would take at least fifteen minutes to reach home, even if he ran as fast as he could.
At any other time, he could have called his good friend, the famous author, Laurence Lake, who also lived in Betancourt Bay, in a cottage a mere two roads away from Greg’s. Laurence would have happily come and picked him up. They would probably have gone for a pint in The Royal Oak pub in the village, and possibly stayed for dinner. But as the phone call that had made Greg shocked, and worried, and cross, just now had been from Laurence, that was not an option.
Not that Greg could blame Laurence. It wasn’t his fault that his car had been involved in a pile up on the motorway that afternoon. The man was lucky to have escaped with only a broken leg and a minor cut to his head. He had called Greg from the hospital where he would be staying overnight for observation. The head wound might be minor but Laurence still might have concussion.
Greg was, of course, relieved his friend wasn’t seriously hurt, but the accident had put Greg in a tricky situation. Laurence was due to give a talk and do a book signing to a sell-out crowd of would-be writers, avid readers, and devotees of bookshops, on Tuesday, and that clearly wasn’t going to go ahead. It was part of a week-long schedule of events in Folkestone to celebrate independent bookshops, and it was too late now to cancel all the food and drink that Greg had ordered. Or to find another author in time to take Laurence’s place. That meant not only would Bishop’s Books be the only bookshop no longer holding an event, but Greg would be considerably out of pocket as each bookshop was responsible for all their own costs. Greg wasn’t cross with Laurence; he was simply cross.
But there was nothing he could do about it. Just like there was nothing he could do about the weather.
He really had no choice. He would have to make a run for it.
